


I'm Waking Up to Ash and Dust

by thebravelittlemonkey



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Continuation, Dark, Gen, Post-Season/Series 01 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebravelittlemonkey/pseuds/thebravelittlemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles describing how each character wakes up after the finale. Or what happens when they don't.</p><p>Each character will have a chapter which can be read separately or all together. May be continued into a full fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Octavia

Octavia wakes up in familiar darkness.

Her memories adjust faster than her eyes, and for a moment the oppressive floorboards flash overhead before the sloping dirt ceiling comes into focus. The sweet smell of foreign spices and damp moss return her to the present as she takes a breath. It is the smell of safety.

Of Lincoln.

He waits patiently in the corner as she sleeps, grinding herbs into a salve. Probably the same one that has dulled the pain in her leg, and as she looks down at the bandage, the night comes back to her. The beating of drums and hearts, the panicked shouts across the radio waves and the consuming silence that followed. Adrenaline lighting up her veins and fire lighting up her sword in the haze of dust, smoke, and arrows. 

“You’re awake.” Lincoln’s voice interrupts her thoughts and he is by her side in an instant. “How is your leg?” he asks, inspecting the wound before she has time to answer.

“It’s fine,” she responds, catching his calloused hand in her own and pulling him away from his work. His concern is quickly abated by her soft smile and sincere words. “Thank you, Lincoln.”

“You fought like a real warrior,” he says, acknowledging the newly christened blade that is resting against the wall. His words are not demeaning and carry nothing but pride for her actions against his own people.

“Yea, up until--Bellamy!” She’s already halfway out of the bed before Lincoln can react, gently holding her down by the shoulder as she pushes against him.

“We have to go back to camp! I need to see the others. My brother’s back there and--”

“No, you can’t go back.” Lincoln cuts her off firmly and she mistakes his command for concern.

“Lincoln, don’t worry, I’m fine. I can walk, just--”

“No.” This time, his intensity gives her reason to pause and she sits back, examining his expression with an expectant look.

“What do you mean, no?” Her mind has already produced an answer: there is nothing to go back to. The plan didn’t work; the thrusters didn’t ignite. The Grounders had won.

“You can’t go back there. It’s not safe.”

“Not safe?” She almost laughs with relief, but the hard lines in his brow hold her back. “Lincoln, when has it ever been safe? I don’t care about safe, I care about my brother. My friends are back there, they need my help.” This time it is her turn to be resolute as she stares down her savior.

“You can not help them now, it’s too late. I warned her. I told her they would come, but she didn’t listen. Now your people are paying the consequences for their foolishness. I can not let you pay, too,” he says, the bitterness ebbing out of his voice as he fondly brushes his hand against her cheek. Octavia flinches away from the gesture as fire flares in her eyes.

“I am _not_ abandoning them. I don’t care what happened; if they’re alive, I’m going after them. Now you can come with me or stay here. I don’t care.” With that, she roughly grabs her sword from the wall and pulls herself into an uneasy standing position. 

“For once, will you just listen to me?” Lincoln pleads, grasping her forearm as she tries to hobble out the door. “I followed you back to your camp when you returned. I followed you into a battle you could not win. I even followed your crazed companion through Reaper tunnels to find you. But this? This place? This is a place I can not let you go."  He paused, looking in her eyes as he searched for a way to impart his urgency.

“This is a place where even I can not follow you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day someone should listen to Lincoln. Seriously. Up next, Monty! 
> 
> Comments and critiques always welcome. This will be a big array of people and I will do my best to stay within their canon character. Let me know how I'm doing!


	2. Monty

Monty wakes up the same way every day: unsure if he is truly awake or falling back asleep.

Nothing about this place feels real. The colors are too sharp, the sounds too muted, and the smells nonexistent. The air seems to stand still, cold and stale, as if frozen in time, a concept that has become almost irrelevant by now.

It’s not hard to convince himself it’s a dream. He’s asleep as often as he’s awake, maybe more. They put something in the food, that much he’s figured out, but he eats it anyways. After all, when he’s lucky, he can catch a glimpse of them. Jasper laughing at one of his stupid jokes by the fire. Clarke hovering over another patient as he brings her fresh moonshine. Octavia diving into the crystal water and beckoning them to join. He even sees his parents back on the Ark some nights. So he eagerly awaits each meal, hoping to ease the ache in his chest as much as the ache in his stomach. Hoping to finally wake up in the right reality.

But today’s different.

Today, he jolts awake, suddenly roused by a sound beyond the door. There’s a muffled rush of movement that’s loud enough to be three, maybe four bodies. It’s the most activity he’s heard all week, and he’s on his feet instantly, moving to the porthole window to get a closer look.  

He catches the tail of a white lab coat as it slips into the room across from him before the door seals shut, and his interest is officially piqued. As far as he knew, no one was in that room. No meals delivered. No check-ins. Nothing. He should know; he had spent nearly all of his waking hours staring at it.

There is no comfort in the world outside his little round window. No familiar faces, no signs of rescue, and no hope of escape. Yet he stays by his post with unyielding persistence, because he's already inspected every inch of his room and this is all he has left. Each day, metal carts would roll down the hall with delicate instruments rattling against their sleek surface. Full plates returned empty and blank charts returned full. But all Monty cared about were the men in white. 

He had observed them with caution at first, shrinking back into his cell when they turned their blank, masked stare on him. But now he stares back. He scrutinizes them openly, almost defiantly, when they peer in his window. Lab rats aren’t supposed to stare back.

His theories are endless, but every day he crosses a few more off the list. Maybe today will be the breakthrough he needs to solve the mystery. To find a shred of hope.

When the man in white returns from the room, he gets his sign. One little needle, clutched in his gloved hand and _empty_. 

For the second time since coming to Earth, he is filled with hope and dread at a startling revelation.

He is not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor guy, everyone forgot about him at the end of the season. I hope he gets more love next season. Next up, Clarke! And yes, I am releasing these in the most painful order possible. One guess as to who is last...
> 
> As always, feedback is great! Monty is a tough read and his reaction to this is based largely off of his reaction to Jasper's time on death's door.


	3. Clarke

Clarke wakes up alone. 

The empty space that surrounds her is overwhelming; a hollowed out hole where a hundred bodies should be. White walls where the ashes had fallen. Where she had fallen. 

Memories flash between each blink of her eyes, but they are blurred out by a haze of red smoke. She shouldn’t be here; there is something deeply wrong with this place. It is hiding in the vacuum of nothingness that sucked away the heat of warm bodies.

When she sits up, the white light threatens to swallow her whole. Tentatively, skin touches tile and the sensation is shocking. She curls in on herself, twisting her feet together as they dangle over the edge of her bed, just like she did when she was young. She feels small again.

She rips out the needle in her arm before she can question what it is. All she knows is it shouldn’t be there. It is digging into her veins, pulling out the heat from warm bodies.

Looking at her wrist she remembers the color of her skin. She’s so clean; too clean. Her battle-hardened skin has been rubbed raw and beneath it, a child has been exposed. She feels vulnerable again.

With her armor gone, each innocuous decoration looms over her, and her eyes dart back and forth anxiously. The empty space is overwhelming. 

But she is not alone.

The movement flashes by her window and her body moves while her mind catches up. When she sees him, she’s surprised her mind doesn’t stop altogether. It can’t be. She utters his name as he calls hers and the feeling returns in full force.

He shouldn’t be here.

And that’s when she realizes it, where _here_ is. The neatly printed plaque on the wall is more legible than the discarded one by the river.

Mount Weather.

They made it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it's actually a drabble! Finally living up to the promises of this fic. If you can't tell, brevity is my Achilles' heel, so I'm working on it. Sorry there's nothing new here, but I'm sticking to the canon. Up next: Raven!


	4. Raven

Raven doesn’t wake up.

The drug-induced sleep keeps her trapped in a dream wrapped in a memory.

She’s sitting in the drop-ship, propped up against its metal walls because her body is too broken to right itself. She must have lost the stabilizers.

An endless heap of wires rests in her lap and she gropes blindly through the pile for the right one. The orange wire, that’s what she needs. If she can just find the orange wire then she can fix this. She can fix the thrusters. No, the stabilizers.

Shit. Everything’s broken.

But she can’t find it. The wires are frayed and tangled, too slick with engine grease to stay in her grasp. Desperately, she yanks on the bundle, pulling the mess slowly out from its casing. There has to be more. There has to be an orange wire.

_“It’s not rocket science.”_

As she pulls, she can feel it. Feel the wires sliding out from the hole in her spine. The pain crawls up through her veins and back out through the wires. It’s not engine grease that makes them slick.

They’re red. They’re all red. Her vision is fading and soon there won’t be any colors at all. So she grits her teeth and pulls because it has to be in there. She has to find it.

As she fights the failing machine, it fights back. Two frayed wires spark together and the shock shoots through her bones. She wants to scream but she can’t.

That must be broken, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be fair, I did warn you not everyone would wake up. Man do I love this girl, I hope she's alive in Season 2!
> 
> I gave you a bonus chapter tonight since there will be no updates this weekend. Hope you enjoy! When we return, my personal favorite, Jasper Jordan!


	5. Jasper

Jasper wakes up ready.

Even with sedatives still lacing his blood, he bolts up to a sitting position, fists clenched, eyes wide, and muscles tensed for action. He’s ready to run, ready to fight, ready to face anything. Anything, that is, except for this.

As his heads turns in a bewildered three-sixty, his left hand explores the bed around him, cautiously patting down the soft linens as if they were mined.

_“Raven our mines actually work!”_

The down cotton reveals no deadly secrets, but Jasper only finds this more unsettling. Another misdirection, another trap: that’s what this is. They’re here somewhere, he just knows it. They’re always here.

_“They’re headed for the gates, game over man”_

He listens to the deafening silence as echoes fill the place where voices should be. Two feet hover over the too clean floor, waiting for permission to move.

“Clarke?”

His voice wavers between hopeful and fearful, settling on uncertain as he awaits the response.

“Bellamy?”

He’s on his feet now, looking for his fearless leaders behind the flimsy white curtain in the corner. 

“Monty?”

The name falls out before he can remember why it hurts and another quickly follows it.

“Mom?”

This wasn’t Earth. It couldn’t be Earth. It was too damn clean to be Earth. He remembers the burning flash in the sky that had streaked across the battlefield; a beacon of hope in the darkness. Maybe this was it; maybe they had finally made it back home. Or rather, home had made it back to them.

“Hello?”

His apprehension gives way to frustration as he circles the room for a second time, discovering the doorknob is just as unresponsive as whoever put him in this room. The painting on his wall seems to be mocking him with its bright colors and cheery inhabitants, and Jasper thinks he might just snap if no one starts talking. He crosses the room in a few swift steps, deciding to rip the damn painting off the wall if only to find something to do. The minute his hand touches the frame, however, a sharp tone cuts through the silence.

“We would like to remind you to please not touch your Cultural Item.” The polite female tone resounds through the room with crystal clarity and sends Jasper a foot in the air.

“Hello? Who was that?” he shouts back urgently, directing his voice towards the ceiling where the sound had come from.

“Where am I? What the hell is going on?” The questions keep coming, but only silence answers him.

“Hello?! I know you’re there!” He’s flapping his arms in front of what he knows must be a camera when the idea comes to him. Two feet jump up on the too clean couch and five fingers extend; he doesn’t wait for permission.

“We would like to remind you to please not touch your Cultural Item.” 

“Where am I?” He’s gripping the frame like a hostage, staring down the camera with stubborn determination and a healthy dose of outrage.

“We would like to remind you to please not touch your Cultural Item.”

“Where are my friends?”

“We would like to remind you to please not touch your Cultural Item.”

“Oh what? You can’t hear me, is that it?” He feels half-crazed, and looks it too, but he can swear there is a hint of impatience slipping into the level, female tone. Recordings don’t get impatient.

“Well fine, I guess I can’t hear you either.” He releases his grip on the frame, but turns his attention to the fragile canvas. Stupid, cheery people. Why were they so happy to be lounging along the river anyways? Nothing good happened on river banks. He wipes away the memories as he sweeps a hand along the painted shore.  

“We would like to remind you to please not touch your Cultural Item.”

“I’m sorry, what was that? Were you telling me where I am?” He’s tracing a path between each of the tiny, dotted faces in the painting, connecting one blank expression to another with a swipe of his finger.

“We would like to remind you to please not touch your Cultural Item.”

“Can’t hear you,” he sings, rubbing his entire face against the textured surface with a smug grin. Jasper really had a knack for putting the juvenile in juvenile delinquent.

“We would like to remind you to _please_ not touch your Cultural Item.” 

There it is. The impatience is growing into annoyance and he just needs to tip the scales. 

“We would like to remind you-- do NOT lick your Cultural Item!”

It’s the gasp that makes him smile, and he turns to face the camera in triumph.

“So, how’s your hearing now?”

It is not the pleasant woman who responds this time. In fact, there is no voice at all, only the soft hiss of the vents at the back of his room. 

“Son of a...”

He’s asleep before he can finish, collapsing on the couch with his limbs haphazardly slung over the edge. From above, tiny, blank faces watch over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long chapter and mood whip lash, but....it's Jasper. I need the comic relief to be comic relief again, I miss it! For the record, the painting in his room is A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat.
> 
> Up next, Finn!


	6. Finn

Finn wakes up to his impending death.

He wishes he had just stayed unconscious. The last image imprinted in his mind had been her face. Dirt smudged, blood stained, and heartbroken, but it was still her face all the same. It had been that image he had wanted to bring to his grave, not this one.

The Grounder bearing down on top of him looks nothing like Clarke. His eyes hold malice, not tears, and the blood on his face is certainly not his own. His knees dig viciously into Finn’s chest, pinning him to the ground, and it’s no wonder he woke up in time to regret dying. The blade glints in the fading fire of torches and Finn tries to see the drop ship past the flash of mortality. The closing door might bring meaning to the falling axe.

But when the blade falls, it falls beside him. The Grounder follows behind it, crumpling in a heap as a new face leers overhead. 

“Come on.”

Bellamy’s command is redundant as he heaves Finn to his feet, bringing him back into a crumbling world. The clearing is unrecognizable, scattered with fallen walls and fallen soldiers that had built a home once. The throbbing in his head dulls the harsh reality, making the din of battle too distant to be real. A living memory he can’t possibly be in.

His body pitches forward as his feet search for the ground beneath them. He’s sinking to his knees, to the ground, to his grave. Who would be left to dig it? A hand pulls back his body as a voice pulls back his mind.

“We need to move.”

Bellamy’s tone has an urgency that seems misplaced with the futility of their future. They had both let the doors shut on tomorrow, but Bellamy’s dragging him along like there might still be one. And he’s determined that they both get to it.

His brain hasn’t connected to his feet yet, but they fumble along without him. He keeps waiting for the inevitable pierce of an arrow or slice of a sword, but it never comes. Something has the Grounders’ attention, something more appealing than the retreat of two broken bodies looking for a better place to die. 

“The tunnel.”

Finn can’t tell if it’s his voice or Bellamy’s, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The world is burning red while his vision is fading to black. He wishes he could stay conscious.

He should say something memorable in the face of his impending death.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that we're on to the final chapter of this little fic: Bellamy Blake. I'm curious what your predictions are...
> 
> Thanks again for all of the awesome support, this fic has been a fun way to delve into each character. Thanks for reading, subscribing, and leaving your love :)


	7. Bellamy

Bellamy wakes up in unfamiliar darkness.

He can’t see, can’t move, and can barely breath. The air is too damp and heavy to fill his lungs, and the dirt ceiling threatens to collapse in around him. For a moment, he wonders if it’s his grave.

_“The tunnel.”_

The half-conscious tracker had somehow figured it out, somehow remembered the tiny hole in the ground covered by crude, recycled panels. Panels from the drop ship.

“Finn?”

The name hardly forms from his hoarse throat when he turns to search for the tracker. Bellamy realizes why his voice is raw as his fresh scream of pain shreds another layer from his esophagus. 

The source of pain comes from his hand, or what’s left of it. Bellamy is almost thankful for the darkness as he turns to look at the mangled appendage in horror. His fingers are still wrapped around the inner handle of the tunnel door, melted into the metal which has cooled to a simmer. The burn has traveled down his forearm, leaving a trail of charred skin where the hellfire had tried to pry his hand from the one thing keeping it out. Long after he passed out, his body must have clung onto the shield, and now it refused to let go. 

Gritting his teeth, Bellamy slowly unclenches his hand, feeling the sickening rip of flesh from bones as his fingers detach from the handle. He presses his head against the cool, dirt floor to stop the shudder of agony coursing through his body. As he cradles his hand against his chest, he lets out a few shaky breaths, trying to avert his eyes from the mess of skin and blood. 

“Finn,” he tries again, tilting his head down to see if the unmoving lump at his feet could possibly be the Spacewalker. It’s too silent and too still to be Finn. Too much like a corpse.

“Finn, come on,” he commands, giving the lump a nudge with his foot, but it doesn’t respond. The only sound comes from his own raspy breathing and trembling hand.

“I didn’t drag your ass down here for a nap,” he snaps, feigned anger scarcely covering his fear. He refuses to add another dead body to his list. It’s far too long to repent for already; he can’t make it longer. 

“Dammit Finn.” Bellamy’s about to kick the inanimate form again when it moves on its own accord. His sigh of relief is concealed by Finn’s disoriented groan as he clutches his bleeding head in confusion.

The two make quite the pair, crammed into the dirt hole with half a hand and half a brain. A medic would be handy right about now.

The thought seems to bring Bellamy’s whole mind to a halt as he remembers her voice calling out to him. A beacon of hope in the dark that he had been foolish enough to believe. Selfish enough to let Finn nearly die for. Maybe he still would if they didn’t find a damn medic.

They needed Clarke. He needed her to be on the right side of that drop ship door for more reasons than he wanted to admit. For now, his burning hand and Finn’s bleeding head would suffice.

“Bellamy?” Finn’s voice carries the same trepidation his own had a moment ago, but he doesn’t have to wait long for a reply.

“Not dead yet,” he responds with what humor he has left. Finn’s voice is dangerously thin, and Bellamy knows if he passes out again he might not get up.

“We need to get to the others. Can you get out the other side?” he asks, decidedly not mentioning the part where his door is still scalding from jet engine fire. He just needs to get Finn moving.

“Did it work?” he asks, slowly untangling his limbs as he pushes his way down the tunnel. “The engines, did they fire?”

“Oh they fired all right,” Bellamy says, struggling to pull himself down the tunnel with only one good hand. “I don’t know how long we were out though, maybe ten minutes, maybe twenty. More Grounders might have shown up.”

Finn takes the warning to heart, and as he reaches the other end of the tunnel, he gingerly lifts the make-shift metal cover to survey the land. 

“What is it?”

“I...I don’t know.”

The uncertainty in his tone sets Bellamy on edge, and he quickly joins him at the end of the tunnel to get a glimpse of the mystery.

The figures outside look nothing like Grounders, but they don’t look friendly either. They move through the red mist with military efficiency, marching in orderly pairs as they carry away their cargo. Cargo that comes in little white stretchers.

“Clarke!”

Finn drops the door before Bellamy’s voice can make its way out of the tunnel, turning on him with a pointed look.

“They don’t know we’re here yet.” The observation is unnecessary, but Bellamy looks like he’s about to charge, so Finn reiterates it anyways. “We need to stay down until they clear out.”

“No, we need go out there and get our people,” Bellamy corrects, making to move again before Finn puts a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ve already fought one war today.” 

But Bellamy knows he’s wrong. They've just been playing toy soldiers. The real war had only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look at that, the broship can continue. 
> 
> I've decided to add a mystery bonus chapter to this fic. Get ready!


	8. Murphy

Murphy wakes up last.

He wakes up long after the Grounders abandon his tortured body by the tree it’s tied to, leaving him to burn up in the wake of their retreat. Long after the men come down from the mountains, bringing the red mist that finally soothes his pain. Long after two scared little boys scamper into the woods to fight a war they didn’t know how to end.

His body wakes up slowly, clinging to the sweet sleep that blocks out the agony of fresh battle wounds. The smell of smoke surrounds him and he wonders if it’s him that’s burning. But the feel of fire radiating from his ruined flesh is too familiar, a constant companion that had been with him for weeks. This fire is fresh, crackling in the distance by the camp he’d sworn to bury.

It takes half an hour of clawing, scraping, and vicious writhing to finally break loose from his binds. When he finally does, his wrists are rubbed so raw he thinks it must be bone that pokes through the tattered skin. His legs put up an equal fight, protesting their use by collapsing under him, but he drags himself into a standing position on the third try.

With a single-minded determination, he limps his way back towards the remnants of the camp, ignoring the fresh blood seeping out from his thigh, a parting gift from the Grounders. He’s come to think the crimson liquid is infinite; he’s shed enough for three lifetimes already and it hasn’t stopped him yet. Why should it now?

The smoldering gate grants him free passage as the dying flames from a dying Grounder light his way. Bones and blades lay a path of ruin in front of him and he follows it to the drop ship doors. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, but what he finds brings a bitter smile to his lips. 

Ash and dust. It’s piled around him like the nuclear winter they had weathered one hundred years ago. Now, one hundred bodies later, the snow floats down on the last man standing who laughs in spite of it all. Or perhaps, because of it.

The irony couldn’t be any crisper, he thinks, making his way into the drop ship to lay claim to the home from which he had been so wrongfully shunned. Fingertips run along the inner walls, touching each item as if to possess it until his hands fall upon the bright red rope that burns even brighter in his memory. Just as his fingers twine into the coarse fabric, a sound jolts him from his thoughts. 

“Hello?” 

Instantly, his hand reaches for a weapon, the image of Grounders and delinquents alike running through his mind. If the warring parties hadn’t finished the job, he would.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

Just as his fingers wrap around a length of pipe, he pauses. The second voice is distinctively too old to be a delinquent, but too polished to be a Grounder. Just as he tries to put the puzzle pieces together, the answer rounds the corner.

"My God…Abby! Abby come quickly! This boy needs medical attention," the stranger calls over his shoulder, turning back to Murphy with a searching look of concern, trying to read the situation from his shell shocked face. Murphy has no trouble playing the part of a scared, injured boy; he’s too startled by the situation to do anything more than gape between the man and the blonde woman who has come rushing inside to join him. She swallows the gasp that’s on her lips before taking charge of the situation.

“Kane, have someone fetch clean water. And clothe, now.” Her tone is calm but commanding, and as her companion abides her wishes she turns her attention to the bleeding child in front of her.

“Hey, my name is Abby, Abby Griffin. I'm a doctor. We came down from the Ark,” she explains slowly, brushing a finger gingerly through his hair to check for head wounds. He flinches from the touch instinctively, stepping back against the metal wall as his mind frantically puts the situation together. The name Griffin rings out in his mind, nearly blocking out her barrage of questions.

“What happened to you? Who did this? Where are the others?” Desperation is slipping through her poised facade, and Murphy sees weakness there, clinging to it as an anchor to his plan. He’s all they have left, their only hope, the last man standing. He hides his creeping smile behind feigned innocence.

“I'm...I'm the only one left," he replies grimly, almost managing a convincing tear as he watches the woman inwardly collapse. Reaching out a hand to catch her arm, he attempts to soothe the grieving mother.

"I'm sorry. I'll tell you everything.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, someone had to actually wake up to ash and dust. This one popped into my head while I was writing Bellamy’s and now I’m really attached to this idea. I think this would be a fascinating turn of events. Also soooo creepy. Murphy's version of history would be horrible. 
> 
> Well hope you all enjoyed! Thanks for reading :)


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